


Cautious Ambivalence

by luminescence2



Category: Caspar Lee - Fandom, Connor Franta - Fandom, Dan Howell - Fandom, Jaspar - Fandom, Joe Sugg - Fandom, Phan, Phil Lester - Fandom, tronnor - Fandom, troye sivan - Fandom, tyler oakley - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Dark, Evil, Fantasy, Fluff, Gay, M/M, Smut, YouTube, powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-12-19 18:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11903451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminescence2/pseuds/luminescence2
Summary: -Evil Tronnor AU-This is not a typical high school story.Enter Troye. A bright, bubbly eighteen-year-old boy known for his blue eyes and his magnificent singing voice. He has his sights set on fame and his heart set on love.Enter Connor. A solemn, witty boy of eighteen years as well. Blessed by some, cursed by many, damned with the insight to another's mind, he wanders the hallways alone, pondering life. He has answers, but to the wrong questions.Enter me, your trusty narrator.Enter you, the innocent reader.Prepare yourselves for themes of the supernatural, of fantasy, of love and lust, though less of the former and more of the latter. This is not a typical high school story. Let's begin.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cautious Ambivalence](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/318774) by -luminescence2. 



This is not a typical high school story. I know it may seem as such, but I assure you, it is not. Yes, the setting is a high school, yes, the characters are in high school and of high school age, but this is not a high school story. Prepare yourself for themes of the supernatural, of fantasy, for love and lust, though less of the former and more of the latter. Prepare yourself for a story not like any others. Let's begin.

Enter Troye. A bright, bubbly eighteen-year-old boy who is known for his bright blue eyes and magnificent singing voice. He is a native to Australia, home of kangaroos and killer butterflies and the most beautiful accents south of the equator. Best friend to Tyler Oakley, lover to none, and second oldest in a family of six. A student by trade, songwriter by passion, with his sights set on fame, and his heart set on love.

Enter Connor. A solemn, witty boy of eighteen years as well, known for his poetry, his green eyes, and his creativity in art. Blessed by some, cursed by many, he wanders the halls alone, friend to none, enemy to most. Isolated by choice, he hides away in the shadows, kept company by the memories of those who have left him. Seeker of answers and producer of questions, he ponders life's most intricate theories, contributing to some and dissproving others. Damned with the insight to another's mind, he knows all, yet not what he needs.

Enter me. Your trusty narrator. Here to simply tell a story, perhaps give an opinion here or there, but mostly stick to the storyline and not drift. Omniscient, transcending the realms of traditional writing. I am you, you are me, we are one in the same, both witnessing the same things, going on the same journey. Privy to such juvenile things as distractions, I will go off on tangents of a personal matter, but only in relation to the story.

Enter you. The reader. Oblivious to the inner workings of this story, just here for the ride. So, sit back, buckle up, keep your mind sharp, and follow along carefully. This isn't a typical high school story.

 

 

cautious |ˈkôSHəs|

adjective

(of a person) careful to avoid potential problems or dangers: a cautious driver.

• (of an action) characterized by the desire to avoid potential problems: the plan received a cautious welcome.

 

ambivalence |amˈbivələns|

noun

the state of having mixed feelings or contradictory ideas about something or someone: the law's ambivalence about the importance of a victim's identity | government ambivalence toward the arts.


	2. One

The weather doesn't agree with his mood. It never does, to be honest, and I can't really blame it, either. Los Angeles is known for it's sunny skies and warm breeze, and that won't change for anyone. LA isn't cold, it isn't gloomy or sad or upset, or any of the things that Connor feels on a daily. It mocks him, the weather, it teases him and proves to him that no matter how oppressive the depression he may feel becomes, the world will keep on spinning, either unaware or uncaring of his distress.

It's an isolating thought, a lonely thought, one that makes Connor rub his temples and close his eyes, if only to perhaps block out the constant stream of information that enters into his brain and stays there forever. He walks up the steps to the main hallway of Central Los Angeles high school, to his first class, where he will no doubt close his eyes for only a minute and wind up missing the entire lecture.

But what did he care? He didn't need to learn basic algebra. And if the teacher gave him a bad grade then he could just let it slip that he knows that he enjoys downloading child porn through the school servers. That's how it went for Connor, on a daily basis. He ignored all, he thought of ways to destroy peoples lives while knowing that he'd never work up the guts to actually do so. The only silver lining to his otherwise melancholy and grey life was his poetry. That's what he did to distract himself from the secrets, all the secrets that weren't his and yet he kept safe.

Pages and pages of meaningless poetry, written in only the finest of inks, because Connor had standards and he'd be damned if he wrote his poems in a gel pen. All day, every day, you could find him scrawling in notebooks, the pen flying across the paper so quickly it's a wonder his mind is able to keep up with him. Poems about everything under the sun, about love and heartbreak, about death and life, spring and winter, you name it, Connor wrote about it.

I like to think that poetry is a coping mechanism for Connor. A way to deal with the hardship that he's been cursed with. Of course, I've never truly understood poetry, but I do have an appreciation for it, that's for sure, and I admire anyone who tackles it. It's like an insight, a version of what Connor sees every day, every second, except this time it's isolated to only Connor's thoughts. His secrets. His fears. The only thing that remains sacred and safe from the world.

He didn't have any friends, but it was better that way. He hid his ability fairly well, though sometimes he couldn't erase the pure look of disgust on his face at a particulary horrid secret, or keep a straight face whilst clearly manipulating someone into not, in fact, beating him up that day. He keeps his gift a secret, ironically, but to reveal it would mean his own destruction. He feared death the most, I think, and he feared that his gift would be used to do terrible things.

Sure, he's had his fair share of close scrapes to injury, but all self-inflicted, all in the shadows of of his bedroom, where the curtains are black and so are the lights. It smelled of vanilla and tasted of blueberries, were a room to have a taste, that is. He sat not on his bed, but in his corner on a rug, a rug stained grey with his tears, little polka dots of red.

His parents are in denial, like most people who stumble across him, blaming it on society, on teenagehood, on anything except what it actually is. They say hello to him in the mornings and goodnight in the evenings, and they cover up the smell of his sadness with lots of candles and Febreze. It's a depressing thought, thinking about his life, and he agrees with me I would like to think.

He drowns his thoughts and his sorrows in the drugs, nothing too strong because he is, after all, a high school student who doesn't have unlimited funds, certainly not from the bank of his parents, no. He hides the scars well, cutting only in discreet areas, such as the inner thigh and the stomach, and he pricks only in the same spot.

The high doesn't work all the time. Sometimes it brings his troubles the forefront of his mind, stressing him out, saddening him, ruining him. But most times, it numbs him. It caps his nerve endings and puts him in a calming, comatose state of mind. It's ironic, really, that that's when he's at his most vulnerable.

He lives a lonely life, a sad life, and I'd like to say that it gets better for him, but it's hard to say. I suppose we'll just have to find out.


	3. Two

In this particular world, where this particular story is taking place, Connor has a gift. Or a curse, or an ability, or really whatever the fuck you want to call it, it doesn't really matter to me. He's known about it since he was around five, and with it came the knowledge that it wasn't normal. It was like a little voice in his head, urging him to keep it a secret, to keep everyone's secrets a secret, known only to himself, and only revealed in the most subtle of manners.

He knew the implications of his ability a few years later, and while morally he knew that he could use his gift to help humanity, he found himself using it only for manipulation, using it to make people do what he wants, to forgive a bad grade or let a misdemeanor slip under the rug. He wouldn't entirely consider what he does immoral, but it certainly doesn't fall within the realms of goodness.

Of course, he's only eighteen-years-old, he doesn't have any particular reason to be nice to a world so cruel, and it's not like he's committing pure evil. In fact, he's probably helping to prevent crimes by warning people that he has information that is condemning.

Connor sees them like words on a screen, little white words that appear next to someone's head, usually hovering between the forehead and the tip of the eyes, different fonts for each person, usually one word, a maximum of five, some harmless, some incriminating. They don't ever go away, tormenting him, especially the bad ones, like flies on a windowsill, buzzing ceaselessly. Perhaps in a past life he committed some ultimate sin, a sin that would follow him for all his lives, perhaps that's why he's been cursed with this gift. No, gift is the wrong word.

I like to think that it's a curse, it's a form of punishment for some evil deed done long ago. I also like to think that it's meant to be a lesson of sorts, even if the reason is yet unknown. Whether the lesson is attuned to good or evil, that is yet to be known.

I try not to dwell too much on it, for it becomes quite complicated, and I'd rather just stick to what is presented to me, rather than what could be read between the lines. I urge you, the reader, to do the same. Do not make assumptions about this story, do not draw lines that don't exist, accept what is given to you, don't read into it, and above all, do not try and sympathize. Sympathy only leads to disappointment, and you'll never truly understand, no matter how much I reveal to you. For you are not him, you never will be him, you're only seeing the surface of him. The surface, perhaps a bit below.

Now I'm off track. I warned you, I am privy to distractions of my own invention, but no matter, we'll get back on track easily enough. After all, a story this interesting tends to pull one back in now matter how hard they try and resist. The same can be said about this curse that we so love to talk about.

Connor tries to ignore it. He keeps his gaze down, he doesn't make any friends, he keeps his mouth shut. But still, there's no escaping it. It's almost as if it's specially designed for him, knowing exactly what he likes. Because there's no denying it, when he reads those little white words, it's as if he's high on the strongest heroin, drunk off the most expensive tequila, and floating on the clouds, all at once. Like a chemical reaction in his brain, he depends on the euphoria that the secrets bring. It speaks to him, it fuels him, it gives him a reason to not kill himself.

Because that's Connor's secret. Were he to have one, were he to be able to look in the mirror and see his own little white script-he can't, by the way-he would see the word suicidal floating next to him. It's a constant thought, one that doesn't really ever go away, just hides in the shadows, making friends with the memories that he's left behind.

He knows he won't do it. Or at least that's what he tells himself. He knows that he won't let his curse consume him, he won't let it take over his mind, his sanity, his sense of right and wrong. He understands that he will find a way to use his curse for good, use it to benefit the lives of others in some sort of way. He knows that this is just a phase.

Or at least, that's what he tells himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: hope you're enjoying!!!


	4. Three

Lights up on a sunny Thursday morning. Nothing unusual about this particular Thursday, except maybe the fact that to Connor, it doesn't feel as terrible as yesterday. The constant weight that is his depression seems a little lighter, he can't pinpoint the reason why, but he doesn't feel the need to anyway. His homework for the rest of the week is completed, he has a thermos of coffee in his hand, and for once he doesn't hate the sun.

He wears sunglasses, which helps blur the little words that he sees slightly, and also gives him an excuse not to make eye contact with people. There's no reason for anything to go wrong today, no reason for anything to be out of the ordinary. But this wouldn't be an interesting story if something didn't happen.

And it was just Connor's luck that he would run into the literal last person he ever wanted to run into. Wildly popular, highly influential in the cult that was high school, with a crazy head of purple hair, Tyler Oakley. And it wasn't Connor's fault that he ran into him, he had been paying very close attention to where he stepped. It was Tyler who decided to race across the school with his friend, streaking across campus at the exact moment that Connor happened to be crossing in his exact path.

Crash. Like a bat to a baseball, Connor goes flying, the two rolling head over heels, literally. The first thing Connor feels is disorientation, followed up by an extreme anger, because he's hurt and his coffee is spilt all over the grass. He stands up as quickly as he can, brushing the grass and dirt off of his elbows and throwing his backpack back on his shoulders, ignoring the searing pain in his right angle. He rips off his sunglasses to better glare at Tyler, his eyes cold as ice, his jaw clenched in fury.

"What the hell?" Connor cries, his voice betraying him, cracking a bit because he has yet to speak today. Tyler, his friend catching up to him, a bit out of breath, stands up, brushing himself off too. He doesn't apologize, instead, he glares right back at Connor, crossing his arms. "You're right, what the hell? Are you blind? Did you not see me coming?" he snaps, and that only causes Connor to become angrier.

He steps closer to Tyler crossing his arms too, his hands clenched into fists. "I'm sorry I'm not constantly on the lookout for you," he snaps right back, venom seeping into his voice. Tyler narrows his eyes, stepping forward too, dropping his arms and standing up straighter. His friend comes bounding up behind him, out of breath, but neither Tyler nor Connor pays him any attention.

"Well, maybe you should be," Tyler says, and there's a underlying threat to the tone of voice, one that does not make Connor comfortable. The last thing he needed was another enemy, another line to add to his arms, but he can't not stand up for himself. That would be worse. By far.

I admire that about Connor, about how he doesn't let anyone tell him what to do or how to act. Yes, I don't admire the way he handles things in private, but publicly he's braver than I'd ever be. But then again, when you're dealing with such an overwhelming thing as mind-reading (or whatever it is exactly that he can do) there's no telling how one would react. This time, however, it goes a little too far.

He sees the little words next to Tyler, tinier than usual, which meant that it was a bigger kept secret. Almost as if the words themselves were trying to hide away from Connor's cursed eyes. But they couldn't escape him, much as he would prefer that.

Fucking the physics teacher.

Before he can even clear his mind, before he can form a coherent thought and just walk away, the words bubble out of his lips. They fall out and hang in the air, just waiting for a reaction.

"I don't take orders from someone who enjoys fucking Mr. Graceffa for extra credit," Connor says, the words like wasps, stinging the back of his throat as they come out, but he ignores it. He ignores it until he sees the expression on Tyler's face. Eyes wide, cheeks flushed, hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles are white, pure fury in his eyes.

Along with the fury there's an underlying flash of fear, and Connor picks up on said fear. He uses it to help block out his own fear. Seeing the fear in Tyler's eyes, it gives him a satisfaction similar to the satisfaction he receives when reading people's secrets. In fact, it gives him a confidence too, confidence enough to smirk slightly, which only infuriates Tyler more.

"You're a fucking liar," he spits, and then he lunges towards Connor. Connor lifts his hands to brace for impact, knowing himself well enough to know that he won't do anything to defend himself, because bruises speak louder than nothing at all. However, before Tyler can get in one good punch, another body stands between them. It's his friend, the one who was running with him, but a bit slower.

He stands between Connor and Tyler, though he stands in front of Connor, almost protectively. Connor opens his eyes and lowers his arms, confused momentarily as to why the beating hadn't commenced. The boy, Troye is his name, stands in front of Connor, holding his hands up, his eyes fierce and his muscles tensed for a fight, despite his size and stature. Let's face it, Troye Sivan couldn't fight anyone if his life depended on it, but he was Tyler's friend and Tyler wasn't about to beat up his friend. His best friend at that.

"Get the fuck out of my way, Troye," Tyler seethes, his eyes still alight with rage, but more of the fear begins to show now. Troye shakes his head, stepping closer to Tyler. "No, Ty, you need to turn around and walk away," he says, his voice firm and steady. Connor watches the whole exchange with the utmost confusion. He has no connection to Troye Sivan Mellet, he has given him no reason to protect him, and yet here he is. He isn't sure how he feels, except confused. Very confused. Hovering next to Troye's head, in almost invisible cursive white script-a rarity-was a single word.

Gay.

Connor couldn't pay much attention the word though, because his attention was pulled back to the exchange in front of him. "Troye, he knows, how the fuck does he know?" Tyler snaps, trying to step forwrad again, but Troye holds out his hands, physically pushing him back. Connor listens closer, wondering what Troye's going to say. Now, Connor won't admit this to himself, but I'll let you guys in on what he's truly feeling. He's terrified. Frozen to his spot, unable to move even if he absolutely had to, he's terrified at the position he's put himself in. He's revealed information that he can't have possibly known without the help of his gift, a gift which isn't exactly commonplace. This has happened before, but it always worked out. Would it work out again? Would luck really be on his side again?

He thinks it's luck. It's not luck, trust me. It's something much more sinister. But more on that later.

"He knows because you have the loudest whisper I've ever heard!" Troye exclaims, dropping his hands and softening his gaze. Tyler's eyebrows scrunch together in confusion and he opens his mouth to protest Connor assumes, but Troye holds up a hand again. "Yesterday, after third period, you were ranting about how you had plans after school with Mr. Graceffa, and Connor was only a few lockers down, he probably just overheard," he explains.

It's a lie. It's a blatant lie at that, not even an ounce of truth to it. Okay, maybe a little bit with the whole whispering in the hallways, but Connor was most definitely not in the hallway at that moment in time. He wouldn't be caught dead at his locker.

Tyler, however, is pretty dense and he believes Troye, but his gaze hardens again as he glares at Connor, his voice sickly sweet with his warning. "If you tell anyone, I won't hesitate to destroy you," he seethes, and then spins around on his heel and walks back the way he came. Troye, however, hangs back and watches with Connor as Tyler goes.

Connor doesn't really know what to do now. He supposes he should thank Troye for saving him from what looked to be quite a painful beating, but Troye isn't his friend, Connor didn't ask for his help. Nonetheless, Troye turns around, and he has a small little smile on his face, his bright blue eyes reflecting the sunlight. Connor stares into them, looking past the white lettering, and he's confused.

Let me clear something up. Connor is gay. Always has been, always will be. It's not necessarily a secret of his, it's just that nobody has ever really asked him about it, and he doesn't think it's anyone's business except for his, and so he doesn't talk about it. Not that anyone would talk to him regardless. However, I only mention this for your sake, so you're not completely confused later on when thoughts of Troye's blue eyes have a more, er, sensitive effect on Connor.

"Sorry about him" Troye says, surprising Connor. Connor drops his gaze, focusing instead on the crushed blades of grass beneath his feet. Almost instantly, the satisfactory feeling disappears, and he's left feeling the weight of sadness upon his shoulders, his original good mood this morning dissipated. Evaporated like drops of dew on the little stems of grass that he killed in his fall.

"Whatever," he mumbles, and he hopes that Troye will just acknowledge that and move on. He isn't exactly inviting in conversation, and yet, Troye still stands there. It's an awkward moment, one that drives Connor wild, and he's debating just walking away himself. But that would be very rude, Troye at least deserves a thank-you. Come on, Connor.

"Thank you," he blurts, and then he only looks up briefly, to see Troye studying him closely. He blushes, his emotions betraying him, and he makes to leave, but before he can take one full step Troye's hand wraps around his upper arm, holding him back. Sure, he's skinny, but he's stronger than one gives him credit for.

Connor groans, closing his eyes momentarily in his frustration. "If he bothers you again, don't hesitate to tell me," Troye says, his voice oddly stoic, as if he knows Tyler's intentions already. Connor looks up at Troye, who is considerably taller than him, peers into his blue eyes. He can see his own reflection in them, and he sees a scared boy, a tired boy, a boy who is tired of keeping secrets, of being alone.

He pulls his arm out of Troye's grasp at that and walks away as quickly as he can, not liking the strange feeling coursing through his veins. He can't put his finger on what it is exactly. He's never felt it before. It reminds him of when he used to have crushes on boys when he was younger, but it's not the same. This feeling has a sharp edge to it, cutting into him like a knife, pulling at his nerves, distracting him.

Hint hint. It's lust.

Okay, so, here we are, our two main characters are introduced, the exposition is completed-almost-and the story is really going to start picking up from here. What will happen? Will Troye and Connor become friends? Or will they hate each other? There's so much left to be told, so much that I don't even know. Yes, me, the ever-present, all-knowing narrator is in the dark as well. Because stories aren't set in stone. Things change.

Kind of like life. Hm.


	5. Four

Troye is persistent, I have to give that to him. He makes every effort to find Connor in the hallways, to scope him out at lunch if only to give him a smile. Connor doesn't know what to think of it, his mind immediately thinking it to be some sort of joke on him, some sort of twisted prank designed by Tyler and his lackeys, of which include Troye. Though, Connor has to admit, Troye is the odd one out. Far less cruel, he wanders behind the group, always lagging behind to help someone carry their books or pick up something they dropped. His kindness is out of place, and Connor doesn't understand why he hangs around the likes of Tyler Oakley.

He'd be much better off with friends like the Suggs, or Caspar Lee, or maybe, just maybe, Connor. Except no. Connor does not want to be Troye Sivan's friend. He doesn't want to be anyone's friend for that matter. But definitely not Troye's. And that's why it bothers him so much that Troye just won't leave him alone for one freaking second.

It's almost as if Troye's chasing Connor, trying to pick him out in the crowds. He searches him out in between passing periods, not saying anything, just walking next to him, their arms so close they're almost touching. It rubs Connor entirely the wrong way, and he wants to tell Troye to just leave him alone, but for some reason every time he looks into those pestering blue eyes of his, he forgets what words are. Nobody should have eyes that blue, it wasn't normal.

Of course, Connor should know better than anyone that normal is just a state of mind. This world is wholly abnormal. Just take it from me. I'm a person, and yet, I know all. Okay, okay, that's a little arrogant, but it's true. Like my own special little power. I'm sorry, I'm distracted.

Troye's strange almost stalking-though that's Connor's word choice not mine-comes to a peak one Friday afternoon, about a week after the Tyler incident, after school has been let out. Connor is minding his own business, a talent of his if you haven't figured it out, and he's almost to his car, almost, almost, but ah. He doesn't make it. Because from behind him comes the cries of an eighteen-year-old boy with eyes that match the sky. "Connor! Connor Franta, wait!" he cries, and Connor stops in his tracks, his eyes squeezing shut in frustration and a low groan rumbling in his chest.

His hands clench into fists around his notebooks, and he doesn't make an effort to wipe the scowl off his face when he turns around. He sees Troye a few yards away, sprinting up to Connor as if he is the bearer of the most important news. He has a smile on his face, annoyingly, and Connor wonders what he could possibly want.

"Hey," Troye says, coming to a stop about a foot and half away from Connor, running a hand through his carefully styled quiff, momentarily ruining it. It bothers Connor, who has a half of mind to literally just get in his car and drive away before Troye can say anything, but then Troye fixes his quiff magically with a swish of his hand, and starts talking, preventing Connor from leaving. Connor may not want to have a conversation with Troye, but he's not rude. And that feeling is back again. The one that stabs him like a knife. The one I hinted about. If you need a refresher just go back and read it and let me continue on.

"Are you okay?" Troye asks, and it's a question Connor isn't prepared for.

Sigh, let me backtrack a bit.

Connor's parents aren't exactly neglectful. They feed Connor, clothe him, give him money when he needs it, you know, basic parental duties. However, they don't understand Connor. And I'm not saying that as some angsty teenage rebel, I mean, they've never understood him, not even when he was little and there wasn't much to understand. They don't understand how Connor views the world. They don't understand how much evil exists in this world and they certainly don't understand how he has to deal with it all. He's a pessimist by nature, though he romanticizes that by calling himself a realist but even I know that that's not true, and his parents just don't understand how he could have such a negative perspective on life. And so they just stopped asking questions, thinking it better to just leave Connor to his own devices.

Little did they know that that's exactly what Connor didn't need. Nonetheless, I'm telling you all of this to help explain why Connor was so shocked to hear Troye ask him if he was okay. It's because nobody's ever really asked him that. And he doesn't have an answer prepared, but he hates the silence so he winds up stumbling over his words and raising even more questions in Troye's mind. Sweet Troye who's only intention was to see if Connor was okay, because he can't deny it, Connor is different. He just seems so lonely.

Troye, a kindred spirit who tries to find similarities in all people, is a kindhearted individual who isn't motivated by any sort of evil, and yet, he hangs around with the worst sorts of people. He can't exactly explain why, but it doesn't matter, because we're not on the subject of Troye, not yet. Don't worry, he'll get his turn. For now, let's stick to Connor's narrative, as it is the one I know best.

Okay, back to the story. "Um, I'm fine, I'm normal, I'm, uh, why are you asking?" Connor stutters, and his cheeks turn redder than cherries in springtime, and he immediately just wants to disappear into the void, to be anywhere but here in this moment. This extremely awkward moment. Troye narrows his eyes and tilts his head, looking more adorable by the second, and he takes a tentative step closer to Connor, who ruins things further by literally stumbling back three feet and running into his car door.

Mortified, he tries to drop his gaze but Troye somehow holds it. Blue eyes to green eyes, curious to scared, light to dark. Connor subconsciously wonders how Troye does it, but consciously he stares right back, feeling how wide his eyes are and how terrified he must look. This is wrong, this is all wrong, he can't look afraid, he can't give Troye a reason to keep chasing after him. He needs to say something to get Troye to leave him alone. He has to. He doesn't want to invite a person like Troye into his life. He can't afford to get attached to someone like him.

"Connor, I'm not going to hurt you," Troye says, his voice so gentle and steady and kind. Connor swallows nervously, unsure of the feelings swirling in his stomach. It's getting to the point of overwhelming and a little corner of his mind wonders if maybe he just has social anxiety, but the larger part of his mind attributes it to his severe lack of human interaction all these years. But Troye is incorrect. Connor doesn't, nor has he ever, thought Troye was going to hurt him. He's afraid that he's going to hurt Troye, just like he's hurt everyone else he's ever cared about.

Remember the closet of the memories of those he left behind? Yeah, that wasn't just some poetic metaphorical literary device written for your enjoyment. It's a real place, at least for Connor. He remembers them, every single one of them, every single friend he's ever lost because of his curse. Because he just couldn't keep his mouth shut, he just couldn't keep his secrets-their secrets-secret. And Troye has quite a big secret. Connor's eyes flicker to it now, the miniscule little three-letter word, floating next to Troye, mocking both him and Connor, screaming at Connor, just testing him, daring him to say anything.

As much as Connor would hate to do it, he knows what he needs to do to get Troye to stay away from him. Except, looking at Troye now, he knows that he can't do it. Troye doesn't deserve that. Sure, he has some shit friends, but that doesn't make him a bad person. Right? Frustrated, Connor shakes his head and opens his car door, deciding to just leave and effectively end the conversation right then and there. Except before he can climb in, he feels a hand on his arm. Flinching, he spins back around to see Troye literally six inches from his face. So close that Connor can smell his cologne. It smells floral, like roses or something, and he has to admit, he likes it. But that's not enough to distract him. He leans as far away from Troye as possible, anything to get away from him, but like I said, Troye is persistent, and he holds tight. It's almost an exact parallel to last week. Weird.

"What did they do to you?" he whispers, and Connor scrunches his eyebrows in confusion. What the fuck was Troye boy talking about now? Why did he have to be so fucking confusing? His eyes, his icy blue eyes are searching Connor's, and it makes Connor uncomfortable. He doesn't like being read by anyone, let alone someone who he doesn't even know. This time he roughly shoves Troye off of him, causing Troye to stagger back, almost losing his balance except not. "Stay away from me," Connor snaps, forcing his jaw shut before he accidentally reveals Troye's secret. He can't do that.

He climbs in his car and starts it as quickly as he can, zooming out of the school parking lot much faster than advisable, leaving Troye to stand alone, watching him speed away. And sure enough, there are a lot more questions floating around in his head than before.

What did Troye mean by 'they'? Was he referring to a person, or a body of people, or an inanimate object? He clearly knew something about Connor that Connor himself did not, and Connor did not like that. He was someone who knew everything, and to be in the dark on something killed him, tortured him, a physical pain in the back of his head, like tiny little needles. He was going to have to calm himself down when he got home, he had to, or he was going to explode.

Just like Troye, the questions bounced around in his head, hitting the sides, and he hated it. He hated the questions. He hated not having the answers.

Like I said, he had answers. But to the wrong questions.

Okay, maybe I do know a little bit more than I thought.

Which means I get to tell this story however I want to.

Fun.


	6. Five

So, about a week after the second interaction with Troye Sivan, Connor arrives at school with the lowest expectations he's ever had. He almost just skipped, but he has a Calculus test today that he would rather take during class instead of after, and besides, he's pretty sure his parents could smell the blood from last night and he does not want to spend all day staring at their disappointed faces. Not to mention he can't sit in the same room as his cheating, lying father for longer than fifteen minutes before the letters start to burn his eyes.

And so here he is, Central Los Angeles high school, milling between the freshmen on his way to the upperclassman hall, his eyes down along with the corners of his mouth. Today, the weather actually matches his mood, but that fact does nothing to improve it. The freshmen, who usually pay him no attention, seem to be extra nosey today, shooting him glances of the hateful and indifferent nature, and Connor feels all the eyes on him. He wonders what makes today different. He didn't dress any differently, he didn't hold himself any differently, and yet he seemed to be drawing attention. Starting to get a little frustrated, he lifts his head momentarily and ends up making eye contact with a freshman named Finn.

Said Finn stares right back at Connor, and he laughs, leaning over and whispering something into his brother's ear, who laughs right back. Connor narrows his eyes, and stops walking, tightening his grip on his backpack strap which has begun to slip off of his shoulder.

Stole his brother's birthday money.

This isn't unusual. The younger the person, the more superficial their secret is. It's a theme Connor picked up on early on, and perhaps this is why he winds up revealing secrets from those younger than him. The less serious the secret, the easier it was the let slip. He could easily give a bullshit reason as to how he knew, whereas the bigger the secret the harder it was to make up an excuse.

However, there's something else that Connor notices now. Beneath the white lettering, are smaller words. In black, block letters. His narrowed eyes reflect confusion at that, his lips parting slightly as he squints to try and read it. Finn and his brother laugh louder, now gaining a crowd, probably whispering obscene things about Connor for their friends amusement and subsequent popularity burst, but Connor couldn't care less.

He's never seen script like that before. This is the first time it's ever occurred, and he's taken back to the very first time he discovered he had a curse. That familiar feeling of unease begins to course through him as his brain tries to figure out what exactly it's seeing. This is a new development, but what is it the product of? Did Connor do something to trigger this new ability? Or was it just his curse evolving? Adapting to his situation? Nonetheless, the laughing is growing and so is his frustration despite his distraction, and he quickly narrows his eyes once again and steps closer to Finn, the black letters becoming legible the closer he gets.

Afraid of his brother.

It's his fear. It has to be. Connor acknowledges this, and then tucks the information away for evaluation later. Right now he needed to deal with the annoying freshmen before he was late to his English Literature class.

He can almost feel his eyes turn cold as he steps even closer to Finn, dramatically slow, because let's face it, Connor is dramatic and therefore likes to create dramatic events. This is the one time he doesn't mind all the eyes on him. The more fear he can strike into the hearts of other the less likely it is that they'll continue to stare and mock him behind his back.

Connor locks eyes with Finn, who stares back quite calmly, a small little smirk on his adolescent face. It lights a fire in Connor that wipes his mind of any second thoughts. He holds his gaze on Finn for a moment before speaking.

"Stealing is a crime, Finn, didn't you know that?" Connor's eyes flicker evilly over to Finn's brother, who has stopped grinning completely. Connor looks back to Finn and sees that the smirk has disappeared as well, and his cheeks have completely drained of color. "Especially birthday money," Connor finishes, and then it's his turn to smirk. And with the smirk comes a huge rush of satisfaction.

It runs through his veins like alcohol does, and he can't help but widen his smirk before shoving past the twins and letting the other students do the rest of his work for him. It's only a shame that he can't stick around to see the results of his meddling. The satisfaction coursing through him now is enough though. He should reveal secrets more often, as it's a great distracter he's discovered.

He arrives to Literature on time, sliding into his seat with plenty of time to spare. His high is wearing off, slowly be replaced by the tell-tale weight of sadness that is his best friend, and he settles in quickly, pulling out his notebooks and pens and opening to the poem that he is currently working on.

His poems are dark. But you already knew that, didn't you? Give yourself more credit, you're more perceptive than you know. However, do heed my warning from before. The last thing I need is an overzealous reader making conclusions that aren't accurate. That just makes my job harder as a storyteller. Don't make my job harder. Or maybe I'll reveal your secret.

I'm only kidding. I have no idea what your secret is, and now I'm off track. I do apologize.

Now, this story wouldn't be publication-worthy is something didn't happen right about now. So, you guessed it, something is going to happen.

Who happens to be in Connor's first hour English Lit class? Troye Sivan. And Tyler Oakley. And who didn't used to have a problem with either of them but now does? Our very own Connor Joel Franta. Poor Connor. However, he manages to keep his head down and not even notice when Troye and Tyler walk in, steps synced up because that's how friends work.

Connor just quietly writes his poem about depression and death, and he's almost finished when-

"You write?" Connor jumps about a mile in the air, and his pen slides across the page, effectively ruining not just the last sentence, but the entire poem as well. "Oh shit, I'm sorry," Troye says, bending down and picking up the pen before it can roll too far away. Connor watches him, his eyes narrowed, his heart racing, and he's so annoyed, more annoyed than he was by the freshmen and once again he's plagued with the question why? Why won't Troye just do as he ask and leave him alone? He didn't give Troye any reason whatsoever to be over here next to him, interrogating him on his poetry. Speaking of which, Connor quickly closes his notebook and shoves it into his backpack before Troye can get a closer look.

"Here you go," Troye holds out the pen, a bright smile on his face, and Connor hesitantly takes it, not returning the smile. Okay, Troye can leave now, does he not see how much Connor doesn't want to talk to him? Connor feels like his expression is pretty clear. But still, Troye stays, staring at Connor, studying him again. Maybe if Connor just gives in and answers a question Troye will go away.

"Yeah, I write," he says quietly, and he's really confused when Troye lights up at finally getting an answer, and he groans when he sits down in the desk next to him, his eyes wide and curious, leaning forward like a child asking Santa for Christmas presents. Connor promptly leans away, not liking how enthusiastic Troye is, and certainly not used to such positive attention.

"What do you write about?" Troye asks, and Connor can't help but flicker his eyes to behind Troye, where Tyler isn't even looking at them, but nonetheless he's a little nervous. Troye sees this, and he turns around, before facing Connor again, this time his expression serious. He even goes so far as to lay his hand on top of Connor's. "Don't worry about him, Con, you're keeping his biggest secret, don't forget," he says, and Connor's eyes instantly meet Troye's again, and his stomach falls.

He knows that Troye knows he lied. He can see the questions lingering behind Troye's eyes, but Troye doesn't bring it up, his expression quickly melting back into his original enthusiastic one. Connor can't keep track of Troye's mood swings, and he tries to blink away his confusion. It doesn't work.

He's just as confused as he was two seconds ago. And Troye is still here. "Class is about to start," Connor blurts out, and Troye slightly narrows his eyes, tilting his head as he laughs quietly. Why is he laughing? Nothing about what Connor said was remotely funny, at least not to Connor himself. "What's your point, Con?" Troye asks. This is the second time he's called Connor by a nickname, and while Connor initially and consciously hates the nickname and damns Troye to the ninth circle of hell for making it up, subconsciously he kind of likes it and all it implies. Friendship. Companionship. Hell, kindness even.

"You sit on the other side of the room," Connor says, pointing to the desk in front of Tyler that Troye has occupied every day of this year. Troye turns around and glances at it, and then turns back to Connor, shrugging his shoulders and spinning around to sit correctly in his chair, tapping his fingers on the desk. "I think I'm going to sit here today, I'm sure Caspar Lee won't mind," he says, and then he turns his head to the side and leans over, lifting his hand to cover his mouth, his eyes childishly mischievous. "Besides," he whispers, ignoring the look of pure contempt on Connor's face. "I'm sure he would much rather sit next to Joe than you," And then he wiggles his eyebrows up and down before spinning around and facing the front again.

Connor, albeit extremely dumbfounded, stares at Troye a moment longer, before slowing turning to face the front of the classroom as well. What is happening? He's never felt confusion this extreme before, and it's not that it's a complex dynamic that the two share, and yet, he can't seem to wrap his head around it.

Okay, it's a little complex, but not anything that should confuse Connor. After all, the world he lives in is confusing as a baseline.

He's forgetting something. Do you remember?

He remembers almost too quickly, and reacts in the same manner, but thankfully Troye is preoccupied with his phone at the exact moment that Connor snaps his head to look at Troye, or more specifically, his secret. The white cursive letters are still there, floating lazily in the air, but that's not what Connor is looking at. He's looking underneath, so dark it almost blends into Troye's sweater, Troye's fear.

Afraid of letting it consume him.

Wow. Well that was really fucking helpful. Crystal clear, of course I know exactly what 'it' is. Connor reacts the same way, his eyebrows scrunching together as yet another fucking wave of fucking confusion crashes over him.

I swear, this story will be the death of me.


	7. Six

"Well? Are you going to give me a reason?" Troye presses, lifting his hands slightly, as if he's going to grab Connor by the shoulders and shake an answer out of him. Connor hesitates, biting his lip, one hand against his car door, the other held out in front of him, a weak defense mechanism. It's getting windy outside, his hairs swirls in his eyes, his jacket isn't keeping him warm whatsoever, and he wants so badly to get away, but he can't. Because he can't leave that image of himself in Troye's mind. He can't. Troye doesn't understand. He doesn't get it.

"You don't get it," Connor says, his voice low and cruel. Troye raises his eyebrows, crossing his arms. The look on his face only angers Connor further, his jaw clenching and this time, he steps forward. "There is evil in this world, and I think I'm smart for seeing it, for acknowledging it. I don't live in some fairytale world like you, Troye," His eyes narrow and he ignores the irony, standing up straighter. "There is evil all around us, and if we ignore it, it'll destroy us," He looks away from Troye at that, at the slowly thickening crowd of people milling through the parking lot.

Addicted to heroin. Cuts their wrists. Pushed someone to suicide. Stole from their best friend. Cheated on their boyfriend.

So much evil. So much malevolence, and hate, and sadness. He sees it all. It never escapes him, it lives within him, it's already destroying him. And he'll be damned if it destroys Troye too. "But if we let it consume us, then it'll destroy us then, too," Troye says, pulling Connor from his reverie. Connor focuses back on Troye, on his secret, and he takes a deep breath, his heart racing. Connor slowly shakes his head, frowning slightly, feeling almost pity for Troye.

"You just don't get it," he whispers, and he lets his body disengage and the sadness wash over him. His eyes look at the ground, memorizing the pavement, every little crack and crevice. He kicks a little pebble, biting his bottom lip.

Wow, I know I said this wasn't a typical high school story, but it sure is starting to sound like one isn't it? Don't worry, we'll get away from it soon. Very soon. Until then, I guess both you and I will have to suffer through the stereotypical high school confrontation that's happening currently.

"How do I not get it, Connor?" Troye asks, dropping his hands, defeated, stepping closer yet again. Connor looks up at Troye, who is taller than he realized, and he gazes into the baby blue eyes that are so innocent, yet so wise, and he wonders what is going through that boy's head. What thoughts lurk in his brain? Does anything torment him at night? Connor doesn't think so. He would be able to tell. He doesn't see anything past the surface except moderate concern, and of course, the little words floating by his head.

He wishes he could just tell Troye the truth. That would make it easier. But he can't. He has no idea what would happen if anyone knew about his little curse. He'd probably be taken into some sort of custody and experimented on. Who knows. Maybe the government would use his ability as a weapon. He doesn't like to think about it. But sometimes, sometimes, he wishes he wasn't so goddamn alone.

And isn't that just ironic? He doesn't want to be alone, and yet he rejects literally every attempt by Troye to be friends? I think I need to rephrase.

Sometimes he wishes he wasn't so goddamn lonely. There we go.

"You don't get it because you don't see it, you don't see all the evil I do," Connor says, and he says it without thinking. Because his mind is elsewhere, his mind is imagining a fantasy world where Troye does know about his ability, and it's not okay that he's daydreaming because Troye is observant and he picks up on Connor's slip.

"How do you see it, Connor?" Troye asks, and now his voice is gentle, paternal almost, and he's so close to Connor that Connor can smell his cologne. It's floral. It's nice. Connor's eyes flicker up once again and they widen, the color draining from his cheeks as he realizes his mistake. And he's never been good at covering up his mistakes.

"Um, I just see it, in people's eyes, and stuff," he stammers, immediately looking down and trying to turn away. But Troye grabs ahold of his wrist and prevents him from getting inside his car.

Okay, is it just me or does this happen a lot with the two of them? I'm sorry, I got distracted.

Troye's eyes bore into Connor's so intensely Connor swallows nervously, leaning away so hard that his back starts to hurt from the tension. "How do you see it?" Troye asks, except this time it isn't curious or gentle, it's accusatory. A flip of a switch. Almost as if he already knows the answer to his question. And that thought terrifies Connor. What does Troye know? Does he know anything or is he just reading into the entire situation way too much?

"Um, I just do," Connor says, failing miserably at sounding convincing, unable to convince even himself. He flinches as Troye leans infinitesimally closer, almost nose-to-nose. "How?" Troye asks again, his voice firm and harsh and cold. Why is he angry? Connor didn't do anything to anger him, at least not the type of anger that he's experiencing right now. Troye definitely knows something, he has to, why else would he be reacting so violently?

"Stay away from me, Troye Sivan," Connor whispers, and then he roughly shoves Troye off of him. Troye stumbles back, catching himself on the hood of the car parked next to Connor's, and he recovers easily, brushing himself off and looking around him to make sure no one noticed the altercation. Connor curls against his car, and he notices that his hands are shaking. He quickly opens his car door and is about to climb inside and speed away, vowing never to give Troye the light of day again, when Troye stops him.

Again.

This story is fond of repeating patterns, isn't it? I'm sorry, I promise that'll stop soon. Then again, I can't really say.

"I see the scars, Con," Troye says quietly. Connor swears the world stops spinning in that moment, and the color drains from the sky and the trees and runs like rivers down the street, taking with it what minimal happiness and brightness existed in this world because once again he was being called out. Of course people saw the scars, but nobody ever acknowledged them. Until now. And how was Connor supposed to react to that?

He doesn't know. He hasn't prepared for a moment like this before. His eyes, wide like orbs, immediately dart down to where sure enough, his sleeves are pushed up in his haste to get in his car. The first thing he does is pull them down, covering up the uniform, thin scars, and when he looks back up he sees the slightly sad, mostly disappointed look on Troye's face.

Except no, it's not disappointment on his face. It's frustration. Connor's eyes narrow at that, pressing his lips into a tight line, the anger surging up again his veins, his hands clenching into fists. It's a white-hot, blinding anger almost. Connor knows exactly what Troye is getting it at before he says it, and it infuriates him.

"Tell me how you see the evil in this world, or I'll tell the counselors about your little problem," he says, and while his voice isn't malevolent, it's snappy, and Connor knows he's telling the truth. The thought of the counselors knowing about his depression and his cutting terrifies Connor so much he feels himself break out in a cold sweat. How dare Troye threaten that. How dare he. There's only one thing he can do to protect himself, to prevent that from happening.

And before he can think about the consequences, before he can realize that what he's doing is only worsening the situation, he says it. The words that effectively shut down Troye and his threats.

Connor takes a deep breath, and narrows his own eyes, standing up and standing straight, dropping his arms to his sides. He speaks slowly and articulately, making sure that Troye doesn't misunderstand him.

"If you tell anyone about my little problem, I'll tell the entire school that you prefer to take it up the ass," he says, the words rolling off of his tongue. In his own little act of rebellion he stretches the 's', hissing like a snake for a moment, before tilting his head slightly, as if daring Troye to say anything.

The effect is what's desired. Troye's face now drains of all its color, and his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, unable to respond. Connor finds himself smirking slightly as the euphoric feeling of satisfaction rolls down his back and replaces his fear and anger, and in that moment he doesn't regret putting himself in the position he's now in. He doesn't care that he revealed a secret he shouldn't have, he doesn't care because finally he's gotten through to Troye. Only one more thing left to be said.

Connor steps closer, relishing in the effect he has on Troye, who shrinks against the car, swallowing. He lifts his arms and presses both hands on either side of Troye's head, barring him in like some sort of prisoner. "I'll say it one more time," Connor breathes, the smirk still on his face. He feels strangely invincible. He likes it.

"Stay the fuck away from me,"

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: originally posted to wattpad, republished and edited for quality on archive of our own :)


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